


There's Something About Marianne

by UnpredicatbleWitch (IAmTheMelonLord)



Category: Cinderella (2015), Cinderella - All Media Types, Disney - All Media Types, Disney Princesses
Genre: Everybody wants Kit, F/M, Female Friendship, IT'S TRUE LOVE, Kit only has eyes for Ella, Old Fashioned Gender Norms, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Gender Roles, Quite a bit of swearing, Slightly Belligerent Mentoring, Swearing, life's hard, quite a bit of pining, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTheMelonLord/pseuds/UnpredicatbleWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The good and honourable Queen Ella was not the only maiden to find love at that fateful ball. Far from it, in fact. Though none of the other ladies were so fortunate as to marry a prince. In that, she was quite singular. </p><p>The Prince's generous invitations changed the lives of many of his subjects that night. This is the story of what happened to one young woman, Marianne, because of that dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All the Maidens in all the Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne tries to get her life together, but begins to find it difficult when invitations to the Prince's ball cause the preparations to throw her out of her depth.

The good and honourable Queen Ella was not the only maiden to find love at that fateful ball. Far from it, in fact. Those ladies who were not either engaged or being courted by the end of the Prince's ball were in the minority. 

Within just over a year nearly half of the single women in the kingdom were married.

Some of them happily, more well situated than they could have ever imagined, the Queen among them. Some of them, were not so well off. As was the way of fate. Felicity in marriage was often a matter of chance. Equally as often, such unhappiness sprouted from the refusal of spouses to be seen as they truly are. Until it was too late for such things to sever the connection. 

Marianne knew quite a bit about unhappy marriages. Had witnessed what placing advantage over feeling could do to even the best of people. More than she cared to admit. If she ever _did_ say as much, she was quite sure one or other of her parents or grandparents would rise from the grave to haunt her. Most viciously. And with no small amount of enjoyment. 

But this is thankfully not a tale of their misadventures. There have been more than enough of those told in the past. This is a story of Marianne's very own. 

The first of its kind. 

It began a mere week after Marianne found herself in a rather new kind of life. 

That of a housemaid. In the employ of a very rich, very important sort of family. She knew not where they got their money. Nor why they were so important. Or if they were actually important and not just pretending to be. Marianne could hardly have been relied upon to be able to tell the difference, whatever their circumstances actually were. 

Not that she cared all that much. She was merely a housemaid, the circumstances of the Laurent family were none of her business beyond that her wages were paid each week. And it was not a business she wished to be involved in, in any such case. 

However, idle curiosity sometimes got the better of her while she shined shoe, after shoe, after shoe. And if her short life had taught her anything, it was that reality could be far stranger than anything the minds of men could think up. So she was resolved not to rule anything out, lest the rug be pulled from under her yet again. 

So she wondered about the rich people bustling in and out of the mansion. So full of importance. With their wealth glimmering on their necks, and wrists, and any other body part they could possibly adorn. With their posh, affected speech. Their often petty concerns.

It was a diverting hobby, she found. Imagining what intrigues and scandals her masters were caught up in with their many and varied acquaintance. Little snippets of conversation she heard here and there fuelled her imagination endlessly. 

The Grand Duke stopped by once, and sent the whole staff into a tizzy. 

In hindsight, it had been quite funny. One man had wreaked such havoc on so many, and had no idea of its happening. At the time, she had been too run off her feet to think much on it. 

In her spare time, what little of it she was afforded, Marianne drew. She collected stubs of pencil and broken bits of charcoal and sketched out the imagined affairs of the upper-class persons she encountered. They joined the pages filled with the numerous scenes and landscapes she had actually seen with her own eyes. Though, Marianne had to admit, she did find her little cartoons more amusing. And far less weighted down with memories.

Marianne had little else to do, after all. Her co-workers were suspicious of her, and she could not blame them. She did arrive in the nearby town without any family. Without any money. Scruffy, with two black eyes, and half starved. And told them she hadn't even a family name to call her own. Such behaviour could hardly be expected to inspire confidence. 

"Not one I can recall," was what she had said to the housekeeper when she asked about her surname. 

Marianne had not lied, not exactly. She had no name of any consequence. None she was permitted to use, at least. As for the inconsequential ones, she merely preferred to keep her past to herself. It was something which did not bother old Mrs. Bell, or Harrison, the butler, an iota. She was young, and strong, and healthy. They judged her character to be sound. She could work, and was unlikely to try and nick the silverware. That was all they wished to know.

Until Mrs. Bell turned out to be very fond of Marianne's landscapes, when she stumbled across them. Then she wished to know very much where each likeness was taken from. Where Marianne had learned to draw. So Marianne gifted the majority of them to her. She did not gift the matronly woman with an answer to her inquiries. 

She was glad to be rid of them once they were gone. Giving the drawings away was akin to removing a heavy ball and chain from her ankles, for how free she felt without them.

The rest of the staff were not so convinced of her sincerity as their superiors. Thus, she remained an outsider to them. Not included in their jokes and merriment, nor their complaining and misery when either arose. 

It was a wariness Marianne was accustomed to. 

She looked like a typical sort of street urchin when she first arrived. She spoke like a ruffian. That was more than enough evidence for most to disdain her with a clear conscience. They cared little, if at all, that she herself was not actually a street child or ruffian of any kind. She had not been raised in the way they imagined such a person would be. 

However, she had long ago lost the energy to disabuse people of those notions they dreamed up on sight of her. 

There was also the small issue of Marianne not having the foggiest notion what she was supposed to be doing most of the time. Well, she could clean a room until you could confidently eat off of any surface within. She knew how to shine a shoe, mend a boot, and sew a button. That was the extent of her accomplishments in the domestic arts. 

Maintaining the necessary etiquette and decorum to perform her duties was even more of a challenge to get through each day. There was just so much she did not know, but others had apparently learned as children. She could not even perform a curtsy properly until Mrs. Bell showed her how. 

Marianne was thankfully talented enough as an actress to bluff her way through interactions with the family. The other members of the household, however, saw right through to her cluelessness. 

It made no matter. None of her fellows complained. None of the family complained. She settled into a sense of security she had not felt in a very, very long time. 

But then the ball was announced. 

That thrice damned ball. 

It sent the entire house into a flurry of activity. Well, a more accurate way of putting it would be to say the household positively erupted into complete pandemonium the instant Small George the undergardener came back from town with the news. That cheeky little Prince had to go and invite every single young woman in the kingdom, didn't he? 

Marianne could not for the life of her understand why. She'd never heard any generosity of that particular brand being displayed before. Not in their kingdom, or any other. 

It meant every able bodied woman within a thousand miles intended to attend. Including not only those of the family she waited on, who she was sure would have been invited regardless, but those of the wait staff as well. 

This, of course, meant they were all in high spirits. But it also meant they were all in for a _lot_ more work. 

Everyone, and Marianne truly meant _everyone_ , was in uproar. 

Nothing was at all prepared. Not even close to being so. 

For none of the family could be seen to arrive at the Palace in any clothing remotely 'old'. Meaning no article of clothing they had worn so much as once. And nothing would do but for their new clothing, specially ordered for the event, to be three times as spectacular as their regular formal attire. 

It was an object Marianne did not believe to be attainable. 

The ladies in waiting, maids, and even the cooks were all enlisted into the endeavour of acquiring all the necessary splendour for their mistresses. Unlike other such fine events, they also had their own interests at heart in regards to that particular ball. 

Each and every spare quarter hour was spent desperately trying to run up a gown which might hope to be remotely worthy of gracing the Palace ballroom. Those who were particular favourites of the ladies of the house were lucky enough to be gifted with older gowns which the ladies no longer wore. Either because they had outgrown them, or they had committed the sin of falling out of fashion. 

Such kindness ensured they had far less to do in order to make a gown that would not embarrass them or their employers to be seen at the Palace in. In turn, it left them more time to devote to their ladies. 

The young women not so fortunate spent their waking moments picking apart their best gowns to run them up as a la mode as they could manage. If they had some coin kept back they spent it on some new, good material, and ran up a gown completely anew. And stuffed every petticoat they owned underneath the skirt in the hopes of achieving the full shape currently in fashion. 

Marianne heard several other maids not satisfied with the results, and discussing whether to buy more petticoats for the occasion. 

"I could get one or two nice 'n thick ones." Bernadette pondered aloud to Nora, "That'd do me well good for the winter. 'S not a waste or nothin', gettin' a new petticoat? Righ'?"

They were not the only girls in the mansion with such concerns. In fact, Marianne felt as though she were the only creature in the land unconcerned with the ball. 

She did not quite understand they were so excited for the ball. Marianne would not sit in a stuffy room with people who despised her, looked down on her and every soul like her, for all the riches in the kingdom. It may be a grand occasion. It may be hers and their only chance to ever see inside of the Palace. But she could easily say, thank you, but no, to all of it. 

She did accept that others may not give a damn that some Duke of this, or Earl of that, thinks ill of them. Or that they may be living in blissful ignorance. There was every chance such ill feeling among the upper classes would not affect their enjoyment of the evening the slightest bit. It was a type of courage and confidence Marianne admired. 

The ability to be seen just as you are before royalty and not care should they find you lacking was one she did not possess. Marianne would be like to say or do something which would see her thrown into the dungeons for the rest of her natural life. If not executed. 

So she decided to lend the girls a hand. 

Instead of scrubbing down the ten rooms she was assigned each week, she cleaned twelve, thirteen, or fourteen. As many as she could. She shined and mended any of the ladies' shoes, riding boots, or slippers she saw waiting below stairs. 

Marianne knew she was putting herself out to assist women who had never liked her, and probably never would. She felt it was worth it, as her efforts were not entirely selfless. 

In the weeks leading up to the ball, there was talk of nothing but dresses, and seamstresses, and petticoats, and slippers, and shoe roses, and fans, and hair pins, and jewellery, and hairstyles. Just about every duty which was not thought to be essential was postponed in favour of ensuring everything was prepared for the young ladies of the family to woo the Prince. With every instance she was imposed upon to be involved in the aforementioned preparations, it became increasingly obvious that she was entirely clueless in those matters. 

But if she appeared to be busy, she was left to finish her duties. Thus, she was able to maintain some vestiges of the illusion she was capable of serving such a high ranking family. 

Even so, she lived in anticipation of receiving her weeks' notice at any moment. 

It never came. 

Marianne tried to find an opportunity to thank Mrs. Bell for her kindness. And to beg for its continuance. For it could not have been any other who was responsible for her continued employment. Marianne had somehow made a favourable impression on the matronly housekeeper. She seemed to prefer Marianne to the other maids, or at least pity her, for she was always extremely patient and attentive toward her. 

Also, there was not another soul in the household liked her enough to keep her around. 

But Mrs. Bell never afforded her such an opportunity. Whenever Marianne tried to get the words out the older woman would send her off on an errand. Or give her some menial task to do in the house which prohibited 'loitering about and yapping, girl'. Eventually, she did as Mrs. Bell wished and gave up on the endeavour. 

 After those trying, hectic weeks, Marianne had hoped things would settle down. The family was fully prepared for the ball. Their duties had returned to what they had been before the big announcement. 

All that was left for the staff to do was prepare themselves for the occasion. And they had plenty of time yet. 

So she had hoped for some relative peace before the arrival of the oncoming storm that was the day of the ball itself. Though she did not intend to go herself, Marianne was certain she would be swept into the pure insanity of getting the family and her fellow maids ready. To be perfectly honest, it was an inevitability she dreaded, but had come to accept.

To her dismay, she received no such respite. 

The past weeks had only been the beginning. For once the nobility were all accounted for and prepared, old Mrs. Bell turned her keen eyes on Marianne. The woman's motives for doing so were, to Marianne, completely unfathomable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if anyone wants to chat, or request anything you can message me here. Or you can find me on tumblr by searching either IAmTheMelonLord or genericfanfictionrecs. I'm always open to suggestions, and since this fic is totally unbetaed, I'd appreciate it if any mistakes were pointed out so I can fix them.


	2. Where There is Goodness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Bell surprises Marianne with a request she finds difficult to fulfil.

Marianne was not left much time to wonder at her friend's sudden and intense interest in her. Or the strange questions the older woman flung her way every now and then. Apart they made no sense to Marianne. On seeing the final result, the most of them all of a sudden made sense to her. 

She stared open mouthed at the monstrosity Bell held before her. Marianne was a difficult person to surprise, but she was positively dumbstruck. 

"No," she said to Bell, attempting to be firm.

"Yes," Bell insisted, holding the garment out further towards Marianne. 

Marianne took a deliberate step back. 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"I will _not_ put that on, no way in hell." 

"You will."

"I won't." 

"You will."

"I won't."

"You will, and you'll watch that mouth of yours, or I shall have you clean out the gutters with the boys next week," Bell threatened, looking pleased with herself. 

"I will," Marianne gave in. 

Those gutters were absolutely filthy. 

Bell flicked the lock to her rooms shut with a serene, satisfied smile. With a huff Marianne laid the dress over the table and began to strip off the many layers of her uniform. Those she tossed onto a desk chair carelessly. She could take care of them later. She moved quickly so that she could get the trail over with sooner rather than later. 

"Why are you doin' this to me?" she moaned as she attempted to feel not quite so awkward as she stood around in her underthings, and reached for the fancy dress laid out before her.

"Hush, girl," Bell ordered, in what for her approximated  an affectionate tone, as she slapped Marianne's hands away from the dress.

Marianne sent an impatient and confused glare at the back of Mrs. Bell's head. Wondering with a small amount of dread what else the closest thing she had to a friend had in store for her. 

 "Hush, girl," Bell ordered, in what for her approximated an affectionate tone, as she slapped Marianne's hands away from the dress. 

Marianne sent an impatient and confused glare a the back of Mrs. Bell's head. Wondering with a small amount of dread what else the closest thing she had to a friend had in store for her. 

Unfortunately, Mrs. Bell was quicker than a woman of a certain age had any right to be. She caught Marianne's expression before the younger woman had time to school her features. In retaliation Marianne received a short but sharp rap on the arm, along with the frustrated clucking of Mrs. Bell's tongue. 

"You really do know nothing about formal wear, do you child?" she asked, not expecting much of an answer. It was not the question, but the hints of pity in her voice that raised Marianne's hackles like a threatened mutt. Though she could not refute the claim without lying through her teeth. And frankly, she was getting tired of doing so. 

Mrs. Bell saw her hesitation, and the poorly concealed anger in Marianne's eyes. A frown took over her face and she heaved out a sigh. She rubbed a hand over her forehead. Then got over her sudden and unexpected bout of emotion. Mrs. Bell gently placed a bundle of fabric into Marianne's still outstretched hands. She pointed at them and began a short lecture in a manner which a governess could only wish for. 

"Those are petticoats and a corset to go along with the dress," she informed Marianne, "You need a bit of a different shape for a ball gown than the ones you normally wear."

She seemed to hesitate before she reached out and laid a hand on Marianne's barely clothed shoulder. Surprised by the gesture, Marianne could neither respond nor move from its grasp. 

"You've had a rough life. You did what you had to get by. Cause 'o that there's a lot you don't know. It's nothing to be ashamed of. So you need to get this chip off your shoulder and move on." 

"You're presuming a lot about me, Mrs. Bell."

"I've known plenty of soldiers and fighters in my time, child. I know their habits and their scars, and you've got those in spades. Aside from that, I saw the look in your eye a mile off, so there's no use denying it." 

"You're not going to tell Lady Laurent?" Marianne asked, wonder and confusion plain in her voice. 

"That you worked for the army, or that you were a prize fighter? I don't intend to tell her anything of the sort. But I am curious to know which you are more worried of her finding out." 

"Both. Either," Marianne responded, feeling panic tighten her stomach, "Neither are exactly _legal_."

"The fighting was, until about a month before we met. I always supposed that's why you were looking for a job," Mrs. Bell said as she gestured for Marianne to turn around. 

Marianne did not reply. There was no need. Mrs. Bell was right, and she was well aware of that. 

When Marianne turned around Mrs. Bell began working at loosening the laces of her corset. It was something Marianne was perfectly capable of doing on her own. But Mrs. Bell was not the type to be argued with, especially not over something so inconsequential as untying a corset. So Marianne did not bother to protest. 

"We weren't liked, though, no matter what the law said at the time," she said, removing the undone corset. She took a brief moment to appreciate the relief before the new one was put in its place, "So why would you hire me, if you knew? It'd disgrace the family to have someone like me around if they knew about it."

"What Lady Laurent doesn't know won't trouble her. I hired you because of all that, not in spite of it." 

Mrs. Bell revealed this as she laced up and tightened the new, more shapely, corset on Marianne. Tightened it quite a bit more than Marianne would have. She wondered how she was expected to breathe properly with it so snug. She was not able to ask Mrs. Bell for an explanation because as soon as she was satisfied the corset was tight enough she began on the petticoats. Which required more involvement on Marianne's part. 

Eventually she was deemed properly fitted out by Mrs. Bell. Personally, Marianne felt it was a little much. She was so warm inside the numerous petticoats and short of breath from the corset she began to understand why her sex had acquired a reputation of fainting. It also gave her a comprehension of why a fan was so important to have. She would roast like Sunday lunch inside a ballroom in that getup. 

She expected to have the dress thrown over her head next. But she was wrong once again. 

Instead, Mrs. Bell walked around her in a slow circle. Her sharp eyes searching out any imperfection, any alteration that needed to be made. Marianne, inexperienced as she was, could tell by the way everything fit there were no mistakes to be found. It made her wonder how Mrs. Bell had done all of it so quickly, even if she had taken Marianne's measurements from her uniform orders. 

"Where did you get all of this, Mrs. Bell?" she asked, plucking at the outermost petticoat. She hoped Mrs. Bell had not spent her hard earned money on her. 

"They were mine, back in my dance hall days. Think nothing of it, girl," she waved Marianne's half-formed protest away, "I'm a lot fatter now than I was then. I've no more use for any of it." Sensing her compliance, Mrs. Bell continued on. She tended to be more talkative than her norm when it was just her and Marianne together. 

Marianne was astonished by the kindness of the gesture. She was so surprised she did not try to argue any further. The gift put her in mind of the fairy godmothers her Nan used to tell tall tales of. Who would pop up out of nowhere and take care of their charges. Then disappear just as quickly when their job was done and gifts were given. Sensing her compliance, Mrs. Bell continued on. She tended to be more talkative than her norm when it was just her and Marianne together. 

Sensing her compliance, Mrs. Bell continued on. She tended to be more talkative than her norm when it was just her and Marianne together. 

"You're more petite than I was, but it was easy to take everything in. When you've done it as often as I have it takes no time at all," she assured her young companion, "And I need someone else to escort the girls. The task has always fallen to Dora and I, but these last few years we're not good for much more than a tongue lashing."

It was at that admission Marianne understood why she had been hired. Why Mrs. Bell had kept her incompetence from the family's notice. She needed someone she could trust around who was capable of defending the other girls' honour. Physically, if necessary. It also explained why she was currently being forced into an outfit far too fancy for the likes of her. 

Marianne let out a sigh of her own. If there was one thing life had yet to beat out of her, it was a sense of duty. The need to help, to protect. She knew she would go along with this chaperoning idea. Even if it meant signing herself up for endless balls and assemblies and dances. 

At least she only had another few years to wait before she was considered a spinster. She could put up with spurning any interested young men until then. 

Marianne only wished her presence was not necessary for the Prince's ball. Or that the Prince had not been so generous with the invitations. Regardless of her own desire to remain as far away from the Palace and any gathering of the nobility as possible, Marianne would go. 

"Alright, then," she sighed again, nodding to herself, "Give me the gown."

"You're a good girl," Mrs. Bell said and gave her a final pat on the shoulder. 

With that, she helped Marianne into the fine, deep blue gown. And did up the fastenings for her. Honestly, Marianne should have been more suspicious of Mrs. Bell wanting to know her preferred colour. At the time she had only thought it odd the woman would be interested.

With the gown securely in place, Marianne felt even heavier and more sucked in than before. Though she knew it was nothing compared to what the ladies of the family would don for the occasion. She felt a stab of sympathy for them. And their ribs. 

She smoothed her hands over the fabric. The velvet was old, but still soft and luxurious. It was more opulent than anything Marianne had ever worn before. Marianne tried very hard not to get swept away by the feelings wearing such a garment brought forth. Despite her best efforts, she could not help but think of her mother. Had she owned a dress like it? Had she felt comfortable and proper where Marianne felt like a pretender?  

Tried to occupy herself with the feel of the fabric while Mrs. Bell looked at the fit of the bodice and the fullness of the skirts. Just enough to be seen as fashionable. Slim enough that it was clear she didn't have a bustle. It marked her status as a servant to a wealthy family perfectly. She was unsure how she felt about that. 

She was, however, sure she had a stipulation to make before any balls came around. 

"I'll go, but I won't dance. No threats you have up your sleeve could make me."

Mrs. Bell raised a questioning eyebrow at her, but decided not to press the matter. Not for the time being, anyway. Which was the best Marianne could have hoped for. 

Quite frankly, she could not have danced with anyone should they ask her, she had no idea how. The simplest of steps were beyond her. Mrs. Bell had been right in saying she must get over the chip on her shoulder. But that was a humiliation she wished to avoid for as long as possible. Mostly to spare herself the embarrassment and condescention involved in any potential lessons in the art. Though she could do without the ridicule of other members of the household. 

All she had to do was find enough excuses to keep her from the dance floor until she was a spinster. It couldn't be too difficult, could it?

Yeah. 

Marianne was bloody well fucked. 

If she ever did meet the Prince, she may not be able to restrain from slapping him. 

As it was, she had a difficult time trying to keep her despair and frustration from overtaking her right then and there. Luckily, she made it through all of Mrs. Bell's adjustments without breaking down.

In fact, she contained herself until she was back in her usual attire and deep into the gardens, away from everyone else. Which she considered a massive achievement of restraint.

There may be hope for the Prince remaining unscathed after all. 

There, surrounded by nothing but plant life, she let out a string of curses, the likes of which she had been holding back ever since moving into the Laurent household. 

"I should've just taken that fucking job at that god damn sleazy as shit pub," she said to herself. 

Once she regained her breath, that is. 

" _Fuck._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from a Cinderella quote. I can't remember what iteration of Cinderella it's from, but it goes like this, I'm pretty sure, "Where there is kindness there is goodness, and where there is goodness there is magic."


	3. Dulce et Decorum est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne's life is full of surprises. Few of them are ever good.

The outburst made Marianne feel marginally better. She slumped down onto a nearby stone bench. There, she dropped her head into her hands and groaned quietly to herself. 

It was then she heard that she was not, as she had believed, entirely alone. 

There were two sets of footsteps heading her way. Rushed, creating the distinct cadence of military issue boots. A sound she was intimately familiar with. 

She realised they must have heard her and were intending to come to the aid of what they likely believed to be a lady in distress. So Marianne made the split second decision that she did not want to be seen. Not by men with such an obviously military gait.

So with all the grace of a headless chicken, Marianne dove behind a nearby hedge for concealment. All the while praying the dull evening would aid her in remaining hidden. 

From her position crouched among the bushes, Marianne could see when the men arrived. When she did, Marianne was incredibly glad she had decided to hide. Even concealed as she was, she knew not if she would laugh or cry at the sight before her eyes. 

She had no idea what she would do or say if they were to meet. And Marianne was quite sure the uncertainty would be mutual. Best not to meet at all. Spare them both the pain. 

The two men stood at the bench Marianne had just vacated. The shorter of the two was panting and heaving.

Marianne had not met him in person ever before. But she knew from various portraits around the mansion that he was Edward Laurent, the second son her her Lord and Lady. Never Ed or Ned, only Edward. 

He was a good, strong man. Most would consider him very handsome indeed. And he was, in an expected, regular sort of way. Edward Laurent would have been an impressive enough specimen to touch a heart even so hardened as Marianne's. He certainly would have, if he did not pale in comparison to his companion. 

Adam Harrington was much improved since Marianne last saw him.

For one, she could see he now wore a Captain's uniform. And she had to admit, to herself at least, that he wore it _quite well_. She had not the slightest idea as to when or how he was promoted to such a rank. When she knew the young soldier, he had been a Colour Sergeant. 

For another, he was even more handsome than he was before the incident. 

Adam had put on more muscle, somehow. He had gained some new freckles to add to the constellations Marianne had always tried to memorise. His hair was longer, and it suited him terribly well. 

Most strikingly, his eyes were still the warm brown she remembered. With none of the harsh stoniness that she saw in her own gaze. His face, his expressions, still held the hopefulness, the goodness of before. She knew not how it had not faded away. 

Adam was looking around, not even short of breath, searching for the source of the ruckus. Completely ignoring his friend as Edward tried to get his attention. This indifference had apparently been going on for a while. Long enough to frustrate a young man of good breeding to a point almost beyond reason. The poor man had even resorted to waving his arms about in a most undignified manner while calling Adam's name. 

"What's possessed you, for the love of God?" Edward demanded of his friend exasperatedly, "There's no one here to rescue." 

"I knew that voice," Adam insisted vehemently, still looking for her but at last responding to Edward, "I _know_ the woman who was shouting a minute ago." 

Well, Marianne thought, that answered the question of whether he recognised her voice. She _did_ feel like cursing again then. She did not do so, if only because it would most definitely expose her hiding place. She did not dare even whisper. Adam had ears like a damned bat. 

"There's no one here," Edward repeated, "It was probably just our minds playing tricks on us. Or the fair folk having a laugh."

"Very funny," Adam replied in a deadpan tone, still looking around. 

"You do realise you're acting like a madman, Adam. Charging around after voices in the wind. I could have you committed."

"You can try, but I could not care less what I look like."

"Well, bully for you," Edward said with sarcasm dripping from his tone, "But we should be getting back, before they send the footmen out looking for us. They have enough to be getting on with."

"Go if you like, I'll catch up."

"If whoever it was lives around here you'll see her again," Edward reasoned, "And she most likely does if she was in the manor's gardens at this hour."

It was that argument that made Adam relax. The prospect of stumbling across her again was apparently all that was needed to calm him enough to act like a rational creature once more.

Well, that was just dandy.

Here, Marianne thought working in service would be a good way to avoid exactly that. Dear God was she wrong. Yet again. 

In the end, he allowed Edward to lead him back toward the mansion. Albeit very reluctantly. Marianne knew him well enough to know that if Adam had his way, he would have launched himself searching every inch of the gardens for her, rather than head inside for a doubtlessly spectacular supper. She felt a debt of gratitude to Edward. And was determined to find a way to thank him. Hopefully without exposing herself. 

Marianne watched as they walked away. She hoped they would move quickly, because her legs were cramping absolutely terribly. Even so, she did not move a single inch until she was certain both of the men were well out of sight. 

Once she was sure they were gone, Marianne staggered to her feet.

She swiftly slapped a hand over her mouth to repress a sob, lest she summon Adam once again. It appeared crying was the reaction her body had decided to go with. 

Okay then. 

That was pretty consistent with how that day was going. 

Since she was certainly alone then, Marianne felt safe enough to resume her place on the bench. She tried to hold back any more tears and get over the unwanted emotions. But she could not. Her body simply would not obey her.

So she allowed the tears to roll quietly and freely down her face. All she tried to stifle was the noise of the sobs that wracked through her. Though she only succeeded in muffling them a little.

There was nothing else she could do. 

It was difficult and humiliatingly childish. Not to mind incredibly unlike her. But it would not stop. 

Marianne wound up sitting there bawling until long after she knew the family would be through with their supper. It was only then that her tears ran dry and she regained control of herself. She stood and tried to remove any evidence of the outpouring of emotion she had just been through. 

She had wasted enough time indulging herself. She needed to plan a way to deal with Adam's presence. One which did not involve crying in the gardens in the middle of the night. Marianne was determined that would _not_ become a habit of hers. She was angry enough that it had happened once. She would hardly be able to look anyone in the eye if she ever did it again. 

Marianne calmed herself. As she thought on the problem she began to pace back and forth. The swish of her skirts and the sounds her soft shoes made against the grass soothed her. 

She could handle it. Marianne knew she could handle it. 

After all, she had come out of far worse situations unscathed. And without half so much bother as she was making out of this one. 

If Adam was staying with the Laurent family, Marianne would quit the household. It was something she did not particularly want to do, but it would be for the best. Good old Mrs. Bell would be the only one to question her leaving. But Marianne could always tell her an old friend was in trouble. Allow the housekeeper's imagination to preoccupy her long enough for Marianne to leave the neighbourhood. 

Marianne would regret going back on her promise to Mrs. Bell. But it was a regret she was willing to live with. 

She would find another job. 

Somehow. 

She would go somewhere else isolated enough that the residents would not know of her reputation. Use the reference she would get from Mrs. Bell to work in service there too. 

Or perhaps she would travel to a kingdom where ladies were still allowed to fight. Surely some of them had not outlawed the practice yet. She would be less likely to run into any of her old comrades in some barren, dreary, or far off land. 

Unless they went to war. But that was unlikely to happen for at least a few years when the current trade agreements would end. 

But Marianne did not despair. Not entirely, anyway. She had some hope left to remain in the position where she had become so settled. 

Adam could have just been to visit the family that day. He could have been staying somewhere else altogether. 

If that was the situation, Marianne could stay. She would merely make herself very scarce whenever he dropped by for a visit. Given how friendly he and Edward seemed to be, that would likely be often. So Marianne would return to being very busy doing things she did not have to. Or pretending to be busy when she was not, if all else failed. 

Marianne briefly flirted with the notion of ducking out of the ball anyway. Faking an illness of some sort would be very doable. There was that flu going around the next town over. She could easily actually get herself sick. 

But that idea was swiftly discarded. If Adam was mixing with the likes of Edward Laurent he had most certainly been invited. However, an invitation did not guarantee his attendance. 

The likelihood of Adam attending a ball, even one hosted by the royal family, was slim to none. He loathed the very mention of the events. If there was a person who disliked balls more than Marianne, it was Adam. She could not imagine him attending without someone dragging him there by his hair. 

Marianne could not see him appearing at the occasion willingly. And she did not know of someone capable of forcing him to go anywhere he did not want to be. The man was merely inches away from being a fairytale giant. 

With that knowledge in her possession, Marianne felt comfortable enough deciding to keep her word if she could avoid Adam in the interim. She did feel a _lot_ better after making that decision. With all Mrs. Bell had done for her, letting her down did not sit well with Marianne. 

Not well at all. 

All she had to do was discover where he was staying. Without her inquiries being incredibly and obviously overly interested to everyone around her. The last thing Marianne wanted to do was give anyone reason to think her interest went beyond idle curiosity. 

It would be positively horrible for any of the family to hear one of their servants was showing an unsuitable interest in a guest of theirs. Mrs. Bell would probably not be able to save her job then. 

Mrs. Bell would tell her if he was a guest or a visitor. But not without being suspicious of her asking. That woman knew far too much about her as it was. Marianne was not very eager to expose that to her scrutiny as well. 

The other members of staff would definitely be gossiping about him. Probably for a week or two. Listening in on them was an easy alternative. It could be done more inconspicuously, too. The preferred to ignore her, usually. The next morning that near invisibility would work to her advantage. 

When she got the information she needed, Marianne would act accordingly. 

 _Without_ any more infantile weeping. Or she would never again respect herself. 

Unable to keep worrying about it, and exhausted from the stress, Marianne finally made her way back to the house. Though it took her a while. How huge were the gardens, for God's sake? Talk about over doing it. As she made her way back to the house, she decided she was not the slightest bit hungry. No matter how wonderful Mrs. Daly and her staff's cooking always was. 

When she reached the main property Marianne went in quietly through one of the servant's entrances. She could hear that her co-workers were still awake, chatting animatedly in the kitchen. It would be a perfect opportunity to find out what she wanted to know. And there would be food in there still. But Marianne looked an absolute wreck after sitting in the bushes and crying like a scolded child. It did not matter what she tried, there was nothing she could do about it. And she really did not want to be around people.

So she decided she was not hungry. No matter how wonderful Mrs. Daly and her staff's cooking always was. 

Marianne slipped away upstairs unnoticed. Once she was safely tucked away in her room she finally relaxed. She had never really cared before, but that night she was very glad indeed that she did not share the room with anyone. If only because there was no one present to witness Marianne throwing herself face first onto her creaky bed and screaming into the pillow. Because at that point Marianne had given herself over entirely to her fit of juvenile behaviour.

When she was finished venting Marianne remained laying face down on her bed. Wallowing in despair, mostly. She did spend some time wondering if life would always be so bloody difficult. Or if it would be worth the energy to change into her nightgown.

Would sleeping in a corset really be that painful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from a poem of the same name, my favourite poem, by Wilfred Owen.


	4. Disapproval and Dislike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne's secrets are not quite as secret as she would like them to be.

Yes. 

Yes it was. 

Marianne regretted so much. 

Why was she so utterly stupid at the least convenient times? 

When she dragged herself out fo bed the next morning her ribs were aching so badly that breathing hurt. A lot. She was not looking forward to moving. Of facing the multiple flights of stairs located all over the mansion.  

Life might be difficult, but Marianne certainly hadn't helped herself that night.  

Never again.

She swore she would never, ever keep a corset on that tightly overnight again.

Her father had always said there were some lessons you had to learn the hard way. And Marianne had definitely learned that one. Thoroughly.  

Never. Ever. Again.  

Fuck corsets anyway, she thought more than a little bitterly as she changed into a fresh uniform and set of underthings. She was also wondering just how loosely she could get away with having her corset. The line between being proper and getting called a harlot was a slim one. On a normal day Marianne would err on the side of caution. That morning she could not see that working out for her. 

Still, uncomfortable as it was, she gave it a go. After all, she only had so many days she could get away with being 'ill'. 

The instant Marianne entered the kitchen Mrs. Bell spotted her and the housekeeper's eyebrows flew toward her hairline. Mrs. Daly turned away from the porridge she was whipping up to see what had surprised her companion so. When she saw Marianne's pitiful attempts to look ordinary while walking to the table, she had a very similar reaction. 

Marianne tried to ignore the attention and act as though nothing was the matter. Unfortunately, both of the older women wore expressions that wordlessly demanded an explanation. Looking at her like that, they reminded Marianne an unsettling amount of her old Commanding Officer. God rest old Colonel Maraxis, the crabby old bastard. Marianne missed the hell out of him. 

Nostalgia aside, Marianne had to tell them something. And she was not inclined to let them know the extent of her stupidity. 

"I just woke up a little stiff, is all," she tried to assure them with a casual wave of her hand, "I'll loosen up in a while."

All her response did was cause their looks to turn speculative. Another type of look Marianne was not very comfortable having directed at her. 

"Old wound acting up?" Mrs. Daly inquired, her tone light but her look conveying everything she did not say aloud. 

Marianne sent a rather irritated look at Mrs. Bell. The housekeeper merely shrugged at her. As though Marianne should have expected her dark and potentially life ruining secrets would be shared with the cook. Who held no particular regard for her even before that revelation. Who now looked at Marianne with something that approximated a mix of abhorrence and pity. 

"Something like that, yes," Marianne forced herself to reply. 

Mrs. Bell sighed as it became apparent Marianne would not make any special effort to soothe Mrs. Daly's reservations about her. She decided to take it upon herself to smooth everything over between her two co-workers. Her two friends. Though she would never be so sentimental as to use the word aloud. 

"Don't be like that girl, Dora would never make her knowledge of you public. I made her aware of it because she's responsible for the girls' safety as I am."

"'S true child," Mrs. Daly agreed, "I don't approve, not even a little, but I know a girl can do worse things to survive." 

That was all the reassurance Marianne received from Mrs. Daly. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the woman returned to preparing the vat of porridge that was to be the staff's breakfast. 

It was far from the worst reaction Marianne could have expected. It was far better than most reactions Marianne had encountered or imagined. To be perfectly honest, it was probably the best reaction she had been on the receiving end of, bar Mrs. Bell's. 

So Marianne decided not to linger on the topic of her past disgrace any longer. 

"I heard a commotion last night," she commented as she took a seat on one of the long benches that ran along either side of the kitchen table. 

"Ah, there was indeed," Mrs. Bell confirmed, "Since you heard it I'm guessing you avoided us all deliberately." 

"Yes, it all seemed a bit much for me. It wasn't important, was it?" 

"Yes and no," Mrs. Bell replied, "The important news is that Lord Edward has returned and will once again be residing here for the foreseeable future."

"Well our Lord and Lady must be glad to have him home," Marianne said with her best affectation of mildly interested surprise.

It must have been convincing, because neither of the room's other occupants spared her an extra glance. 

"Yes, they certainly are," Mrs. Bell agreed. 

"Not half as much as the other maids," Mrs. Daly added wryly.

"Why?" Marianne asked feigning ignorance, "Does his arrival mean a reduction in our workload?" 

That caused both of the older women to laugh in a rather girlish manner. It was something Marianne was not used to seeing. But the easy smiles and light sounds of their chuckling suited both women immensely. 

"Nothing of the sort," Mrs. Bell replied once she was finished laughing, "They're just over the moon because they get to ogle him. The poor boy." 

"Aye, we can only hope they'll do it discretely, or our Lady might gouge one of their eyes out," Mrs. Daly commented as she stirred. 

"You don't plan to warn them about that kind of disrespectful behaviour?" Marianne wondered, because that kind of complacency was very out of character for both of her superiors. 

"We did all we could last night. I don't see the harm in letting it go, they'll be very soon distracted by actually eligible young men at the ball," Mrs. Bell confided, and Marianne could see her reasoning. 

It would be very unlikely for the other girls to pine after Edward Laurent very long when there were plenty of men who would actually pay attention to them. Besides, that approach to the situation meant significantly less effort was needed from Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Daly. Marianne could understand their disinclination to play warden to their staff's hormonal impulses. 

"I'm presuming you need no such warning," Mrs. Bell said to her. 

Marianne gently shook her head with a short laugh. 

"Nah, I'm quite determined to end an old maid," she informed them, and paid no mind to their obvious surprise. 

"Truly?" Mrs. Bell wondered, "I merely meant I trusted you wouldn't allow such foolish things to rule you."

"I assumed you already had a man in mind," Mrs. Daly admitted with a raised eyebrow. 

"No. It's been a while since I thought of such things."

"Well, all the better for our Lady's peace of mind," Mrs. Daly said, then turned back to dolloping out portions of porridge, done with the conversation. 

One such portion was placed before Marianne, another before Mrs. Bell who sat across from her. Immediately followed by a brass dish filled with sticky, unrefined sugar which was placed between them. Marianne gave her sincere thanks to Mrs. Daly and stirred a _very_ small amount of sugar into her porridge. A simple meal it may have been, but Marianne was used to having much, much worse. 

"There is another favour I wanted to ask of you, before the others come down," Mrs. Bell admitted as she started in on her own breakfast. 

"Compared to chaperoning my fellows around a never ending series of dances, it should be a breeze," Marianne said to encourage Mrs. Bell to go on and ask her what she needed. 

"I need someone to look after Lord Edward's rooms, who I can rely on to remain professional. Not just cleaning, but making sure the room is properly kept and stocked," Mrs. Bell explained, "And Lord Edward and Lady Laurent requested that we prepare one of the larger guest rooms. A very close friend of Lord Edward is visiting his aunt, Lady Franchesca, nearby. There is a high likelihood he will spend a lot of time here. So a room is to be kept ready for him should he happen to require it." 

"I can do that." 

"it will be on top of your regular duties," Mrs. Bell warned. 

"Thank you, it puts my mind at ease." 

"Anything you need help with, Mrs. Bell, you can ask me and I'll see that it's done." 

"Good to know, Marianne, and again, thank you." 

Their discussion was then over. The other members of staff were beginning to trickle into the kitchen. All of them yawning, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, and otherwise trying to wake themselves up. The majority found that to be insufficient. So the large pot of coffee Mrs. Daly had prepared was quickly emptied. Another was put in its place. But it did not last very long either. 

Once Marianne was finished eating she hurried off, leaving the others to their chatter. Mrs. Bell had unwittingly told her everything she needed to know. So there was no need fo her to subject herself to any more exaggerated gossip than normally endured.

And she had work that needed to be done before the family rose for the day. 

The first fire she always saw to was in the breakfast room. It was the first room the family would use every day, so it was the sensible option. Scrubbing down and lighting the fires was a job that fell to Marianne for two reasons. She was really very good at cleaning them. They positively gleamed once she was through with them. Also because she could get a fire going out in the open in the middle of a hurricane. 

Yes, she had done exactly that before. 

So if she was the one performing the task they never had to deal with the young ladies complaining they would die of pneumonia. Purely because the fire hadn't been lit before they moved into the music room. Honestly, it had barely even been chilly. 

Marianne was sure they would die within an hour if left to fend for themselves. 

She was also slightly suspicious that Lord Laurent and his heir liked the change for less 'practical' reasons. 

Nevertheless, Marianne kept her opinions to herself. The conversations she often overheard during those moments provided her with more than enough entertainment to be worth it. 

When she had set all of the fires alight and ensured the blaze was strong, she moved on to her new assignment. Cleaning and setting up a room for Lord Edward's potential guest. 

As she gathered everything she would need for the task Marianne infinitely grateful for Adam's sense of duty. It was very unlikely he would stay in the Laurents' home while he was supposed to be visiting his relative. 

That certainty was the only reason she was unbothered by her new task. 

In fact, it turned out to be quite the guilty pleasure. Fitting up a room specifically for Adam. Taloring it to what he would like. It gave her an opportunity to think of him, and lavish his potential surroundings with attention, without anyone else knowing what she was up to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be about the ball, I swear. Actually, the next two will probably happen at the ball. Yay, finally getting somewhere! Also, I'm not really liking the chapter title, so it's likely to change. Any suggestions would be really great.


	5. The Oncoming Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the ball is, at last, upon them. It leaves Marianne run off her feet and full of dread.

The day of the ball did, eventually, arrive.

To Marianne's disappointment, it was not cancelled due to some inexplicable and unchangeable circumstance. Perhaps prayers did not work unless one actually believed in the God they were applying to. 

Oh, well. There was nothing she could do about that. 

Marianne was completely correct in predicting the utter chaos it brought with it. And yes, she had been similarly right in thinking even she would be dragged into the middle of it. Maybe Marianne should have been a palm reader, this foresight of hers seemed to be a missed opportunity. 

She was quite seriously contemplating quitting and running off to be a psychic anyway. Because Marianne was very much stronger than the other maids and ladies in waiting - combined. So she had been delegated the task of tightening all of her mistresses' corsets. Because their regular method of lacing the damned things up was evidently not good enough to impress royalty. 

Marianne was very glad Mrs. Bell had taught her how to lace up on of those things properly. She doubted the ladies would have approved of the 'it'll do' approach Marianne used for her own needs. 

"Tighter," requested the eldest of the Laurent sisters. 

"My Lady, if I pull anymore I will break one of your ribs," Marianne warned, while trying not to let the confusion and doubt show on her face. 

"Tighter," the young woman repeated with such determination Marianne realised arguing further was not worth the effort. 

So Marianne, very carefully, did as she was told, despite her reservations. Though, once she had eeked the corset another unwilling fraction tighter she immediately began tying the knots to keep the undergarment in place. Thankfully, Lady Eloise was in the middle of trying to catch her breath. Therefore unable to question her actions. 

She quickly curtsied and got out of the way of the lady's maid impatiently waiting to go about dressing Lady Eloise. Probably so she could leave and primp herself for the ball. 

"Thank you, Marianne," Mary said dismissively, "That was very efficiently done." 

For Mary, that was almost a kiss on the mouth. 

"Let me know if my assistance is otherwise required," Marianne said in reply, as Mrs. Bell had told her that was what would be expected of her. At least in front of the ladies. In private Marianne was free to tell any of the lady's maids to 'fuck themselves with a rusty pipe' if they demanded anything extraneous of her. 

She had not realised Mrs. Bell could be quite so vicious. Marianne quite liked that about her companion, she had to admit. 

She went through the same rigamarole with the other ladies of the family. When they were all sucked in and secured Marianne scampered off below stairs before she could be called upon for anything else. God help the valet who asked her to assist Lord Laurent into a girdle. That was an indignity she refused to suffer through. 

As she returned to performing errands for Mrs. Bell she hoped the ladies did not observe a measurable difference in their figures. Tending to them directly was not a job Marianne wanted to be responsible for on a daily basis. 

But just as she was about to escape to the safety of the servants' domain, she was waylaid. By none other than Edward Laurent. The young man she had heard far too much about over the past few days. 

"Oh, I'm sorry miss. Please excuse me, I was caught up in my own thoughts," he apologised, stepping back to a respectful distance from her. 

Sincerity rang in his every word. It fostered a level of fondness in her she was surprised to feel for a member of the family she served. 

"It is perfectly alright my Lord. We are all very distracted today," she said and curtsied and made to try to escape once again. 

"I apologise, but if I could have a moment of your time?" he asked, and Marianne found herself ever more endeared to the nervous, kind-eyed young man. 

"Of course, my Lord."

"I do not know you, but will you forgive me for presuming you are Miss Marianne? The maid that was hired recently." 

"I am," she answered, not quite sure what he wanted from her. 

He was far from requiring a girdle. 

"I would like to thank you, as it is my understanding it was you who prepared Captain Harrington's rooms," he revealed. 

"Oh, it was no trouble, my Lord."

"I'm sure it was, miss. But I hate to think of him cooped up with that frightful aunt of his." 

"Such concern for your friend is to your credit, my Lord." 

"Thank you, for taking care of it," Edward said once again. 

He then bowed, and continued the way he was headed. 

Marianne let out a huff and went on her way. She could see why Adam had made a friend of him, that was for sure. Marianne had not come across many Lords or their sons who would go out of their way to thank a servant like that. For saving their life, or some other grand feat, she might see such a thing occurring. But for doing something the Lady of the house had requested of her staff? That was strange indeed. 

She knew well how fond Adam was of those who were odd or unusual in some manner. 

It was, after all, her own multiple oddities that drew Adam to her when they first met.

Marianne quickly got over the encounter and got on with her duties. With Mrs. Bell ordering them all around with more efficiency than a general, the staff was finished with all of the necessary business before long. It was then the true anarchy began. Every servant in the mansion flew about in a panic. Attempting to see to last minute details. Trying to conquer a severely ill-timed bad hair day. Looking frantically for elusive items of clothing. Or some were practicing moving about in a way which did not obviously show how uncomfortable they were.  

Marianne and Small George were almost bowled over by Nora when she was trying to locate a missing glove. They shared a commiserating glance as they righted themselves. Or some were practicing moving about in a way which did not obviously show how uncomfortable they were.  

Marianne found her footing just in time to witness a tug-of-war begin over a pair of slippers. Which was accompanied by shouts and complaints that they were getting in the way. 

Some were practicing moving about in a way which did not obviously show how uncomfortable they were. They made some valiant attempts at doing so. But Marianne thought it was a little late to begin practicing.  

She would have liked to be sitting around, sketching, and watching the chaos unfold around her. Instead she was also strapped and laced into a ballgown. Her hair was pulled and tugged this way and that. Because her usual topknot was inappropriate for such an event. So Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Daly had contorted the pale, almost pinkish, strands into a mass of braids surrounded by artful wisps of curls. Never in her life had Marianne's _hair_ been so uncomfortable to deal with.  

"Are you sure none of my scalp has been ripped off?" she asked Mrs. Bell as the housekeeper looked over her handiwork. 

She adjusted the placement of the dress's neckline - a deep 'v' which Marianne was more than a little wary of - and hushed her. 

"Don't be dramatic, child. It doesn't suit you." 

"I'm not being dramatic, I'm genuinely worried Bell," she retorted as she tried not to fidget under the intense scrutiny. Mrs. Bell gave her a disbelieving frown. 

"Alright, I do believe you're ready as you're going to get. Turn around and have a look at yourself," she ordered, gesturing at the looking glass which hung on her bedroom wall. 

Marianne did not feel the need, nor any desire, to admire herself. But she did as she was ordered rather than anger Mrs. Bell. When she did, she regretted it at once. She did not look like herself in the slightest. She looked more like an apparition of a woman long dead than anything else. 

Lovely and fashionable as she may have looked, Marianne disliked her appearance then far more than she ever had before. 

"I should hardly know myself, Bell. I think your work here is done," she finally spoke. Trying to be truthful without revealing too much of her inner troubles. Or grimacing. 

As she turned away from her reflection Marianne wondered if anyone who knew her grandmother would be at the ball. She hoped not. If there was any old acquaintance of hers present, Marianne might just kill them with fright. She was shocked enough herself, she would not be very surprised at such a thing happening. 

She was prevented from dreading any and all worst case scenarios by Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Daly. When she tuned back into their conversation they were discussing how best to corral their staff to leave. 

Their Lady was so generous as to hire carriages for them all to take to the ball. But that meant they all had to leave at one time. For whatever reason. Marianne had not been listening while that was being explained. That would surprise no one. She barely listened when they were talking about the ball on a patient day. No one would expect her to know the minutiae of the arrangements. 

What Marianne did know, however, was how to get people to move their arses. She had spent years watching possibly the best motivator on this earth. So she interrupted their unnecessarily detailed scheming. 

"Do we need to leave now?"

"We have about seven minutes," Mrs. Daly answered once she checked the small clock on Mrs. Bell's desk. 

"No problem," Marianne replied pleasantly and left Mrs. Bell's rooms. 

She quickly marched into the kitchen, where most of the carnage was happening. Mainly because people wanted to use pots and pans in the place of looking glasses. Marianne picked up two such pieces of cookware which were no longer in use. Then, to the astonishment of everyone present, whacked them together repeatedly. The noise was more than enough to call the attention of her co-workers. So she dropped them to the table with a final clatter. And performed her best impression of a certain crabby old Colonel. 

"The carriages leave in five minutes. If you're not on one by then, good luck getting to the palace on your own. They won't be making exceptions."

Before any of them got over their surprise enough to question her, Marianne turned on her heel and left. 

She met Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Daly again in the hallway. They were giving her sceptical, assessing looks, and did not speak. Marianne smiled at them a little deviously. 

"They'll be there," she assured them confidently. 

She did not see anything else that could possibly require her attention. Therefore she felt no guilt in leaving the mansion to wait in the carriages. She had more than enough of their preparations. And if she was going to survive an entire night at a ball she needed a moment to collect herself. To just breath and not have to ignore someone's complaining. Or gossiping. Or squeals of excitement. 

That was not too much to ask. 

Was it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this wasn't the ball, sorry-not-sorry. I'm working on it. I've got two alternate versions of the ball itself currently. But I wanted to post something. So we have the build up! Yay, the illusion of productivity. The best friend of procrastinators like me.


	6. To the Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were at last arriving at the palace. Despite herself, Marianne was extraordinarily curious to see the splendour within. To hear all the best performers that would be gracing the stage. To get lost in the merriment. 
> 
> She found herself, dare she say it, excited.

Yes, as it turned out, it was too much to ask.

The journey to the palace was far from the quiet trip she had expected. Even through Marianne's carriage was filled with Mrs. Bell, Mrs. Daly, Harrison, and several other of the elder members of the Laurent's staff.. It was company Marianne expected would be rather subdued. Particularly considering how much tedious babysitting they were in for the next few hours. 

Marianne's assumptions could not have been more wrong. 

Now that her elders were not before their juniors, they felt no need to act as an example of proper behaviour for anyone. As they were usually compelled to do as part of their daily duties. So, they had taken their, relatively brief, seclusion as an opportunity to become extremely boisterous. 

So much so that it left Marianne entirely speechless. They were behaving like a bunch of rowdy youths. It was a manner in which they would never behave in where their subordinates could observe them. 

She had not realised this fact before, but it seemed that not one of them considered Marianne to be among their charges. 

It was the very last piece of information Marianne had expected to learn that night. She had thought she would be inundated with useless titbits about various people's  personal lives. Information which would be useless and mind numbingly boring to learn of. She did not think she would come across a revelation which would alter her perception so markedly. 

But then she came to the aforementioned shocking conclusion. It was a level of respect Marianne never thought she would receive from her elder colleagues. She was too stunned say anything about it. But she felt the warmth of gratitude swell within her nonetheless.

Although unexpected, that inference did explain a lot. Why none of them ever bothered to correct her, for example. Either over her work or her behaviour. Though they frequently corrected the numerous other young members of staff on both issues. 

Marianne knew she was a few years older than every one of the other girls in her position within the Laurent household. Despite their age difference, she had never thought of her station as being above theirs.

Although it appeared she was indeed above them in the household hierarchy. By several significant steps in the ladder, it seemed. 

This discovery also explained the odd treatment she had endured in the household on a daily basis ever since she arrived. If Marianne was correct, she was in a sort of in between position among the servants. Thought of as more senior than the footmen and the teenage kitchen girls and maids she shared many of her duties with. But she was also below the likes of Mrs. Bell, Harrison, or Mr. Crescent the head gardener. 

With that in mind it was no wonder the other members of staff paid her such little attention. 

Those of the staff who were more senior, the likes of Mrs. Daly, were unsure as to whether or not they should treat Marianne as an equal. If they did, they could have been reprimanded by their employers for inappropriate behaviour toward a subordinate. If they correct her, or ordered her around, they risked being told off for bossing around an equal. 

Their younger counterparts were afraid of misbehaving in front of someone who just might be their superior. That could have resulted in all sorts of severe reprimands for them. 

However, it seemed the elder members of the household had made up their minds. It may have been because Marianne had taken up the mantle of chaperone. Or they could have just gotten tired of the uncertainty and collectively, and wordlessly, made the decision. 

Whatever the cause, their minds had quite obviously been made up. 

Because their carriage was filled with the same kind of uncharacteristically childish giggling Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Daly burst into the day after Lord Edward arrived home. 

And gossiping.

Joking and chuckling. 

The loud and enthusiastic retelling of anecdotes from their own dancehall days. 

Initially, it was mind boggling. But once Marianne adjusted to this new aspect of her superiors' personalities, it was very amusing.

A lot of the anecdotes they were so boisterously re-enacting were extremely entertaining. A few of them even included instances of hilariously outrageous lawbreaking. The likes of which she would have expected from her incredibly proper colleagues.

Marianne was honestly enjoying Mrs. Crescent's retelling of how her husband, when he was a young man and trying to impress her, tried to make off with a Hesperides Apple from the Moors. Even though there was a whole other country between them and the infamous fairy land. Marianne supposed that only would have made his feat more impressive.

Only he did not succeed. He was caught and run out of the Moors by the one, the only, Maleficent herself.

According to Mrs. Crescent, her husband was permanently traumatised by the adventure. Mr. Crescent adamantly denied that assertion, but Marianne could tel he was not being entirely truthful with that flat denial.

There was something in his eyes that spoke of some sort of ordeal.

Marianne was quite experienced with shell shock. And Mr. Crescent had one hell of a thousand-yard stare going on.  

This development, while gratifying, had consequences for Marianne's plans for the night. She had not thought she would require so much energy to keep up with them. As it turned out, she was mistaken. They were quite the lively bunch. 

Unlike her companions, Marianne did not have a similarly endless supply of vivacity to draw from to keep her going. She was pretty sure she would be exhausted before they even arrived at the ball. 

She did not want to be that drained before the night even began. She had work to do. But she also did not want to disappoint her colleagues, or become short with them. 

So, she was pleasantly surprised to find as the time drew on she did not become weary and cranky from being in company for so long. Though in the past, she would have been pulling her hair out after half an hour. Well, probably less than that, if she was being perfectly honest with herself. 

But she did quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. 

She laughed along with them, without having to force the sound from her throat. She smiled with them, without having to contort the muscles in her face into doing it. She began to feel somewhat settled, rather than more agitated, as time drew on. This surprised her more than anything else that had happened so far that evening. 

They weren't even close to the palace yet, and the evening had already been an emotional roller coaster. At least, it had been for Marianne. 

The rest of the night could only be rather droll in comparison, of that Marianne was certain. At least, it would be a little dull for her. She was sure her younger colleagues would find the night hugely satisfying. 

But of this opinion, too, she was swayed from. Her colleagues had a good deal of information on the upcoming event that was tantalising. Even if Marianne had not the foggiest idea how they knew any of it. Their information had the result of making Marianne nearly as excited as her colleagues as they approached their destination. 

By the time the palace was within sight, Marianne could honestly say she was looking forward to the rest of the evening. 

Especially if what Harrison said was true and the King had indeed engaged all of the best performers in the country to play at the ball. That alone would surely be worth the trouble in getting to the cursed event. Perhaps even worth the trouble of chaperoning a gang of young girls who were attempting to lure a prince into marriage. Though that was still up for debate, as far as Marianne was concerned. 

Marianne may not have a clue how to dance. She may not know much, or anything, about the technicalities of the arts of playing or composing. Marianne had a somewhat decent voice, but she had never been taught how to use it. 

Despite all that, she could still appreciate music. Which she did, whenever she had the opportunity. 

And it had been a good long time since she had been to a concert of any description. 

Mostly due to her former profession being outlawed. Which resulted in her moving to a country estate far from the metropolis she was used to. There were not very many concert halls in the area of the Laurents' estate. 

Her companions' enthusiasm gave her hope that she could find a way to make to evening a good time. Just because she was unable, and if being truthful, unwilling, to find enjoyment from the typical attractions of a ball, it didn't mean she was doomed to a night of drudgery. 

Even if she had to be stuck in a room amongst the nobility, the gentry, and all the stuck-up cling-ons who always came along with them. Marianne could think up some way to prevent their inevitably enraging behaviour infringing on her appreciation of the festivities. She may, at last, learn to ignore them. 

Perhaps.

Marianne was not prepared to hold her breath until then, however. 

If that failed, Marianne could always make fun of them. Possibly with her colleagues. One or two of them may share her liking for finding humour in the toffs' goings on. If so, that could be on entertaining way to pass the evening. 

As the approached the palace gates, all such thoughts were driven, quite forcefully, from Marianne's mind. 

The breath was stolen from her lungs just as thoroughly. 

They had just overtaken the buildings which had been blocking their view. And the palace sat before them in all its glory. She had not been gone from the city for more than a few months. But she had already forgotten just how magnificent a sight it was. A sprawling splendour which had once been a familiar landmark to her. 

But the city of Aldany changes more quickly than outsiders could hope to keep up with. Always had. Always will. There would be no fighting it. Now, the once familiar alleys and roads and landmarks had all shifted significantly. 

Besides, Marianne had never even attempted to set foot past the gates. 

A law-abiding citizen she may not have always been. But she was never stupid enough to try and push the boundaries of palace security. That is how people lose their heads. And Marianne wished to remain attached to hers. 

That evening, however, they were allowed past the guards even smiled and nodded at them as Marianne and her colleagues passed them by. 

Which was intensely strange. Well, it was strange for Marianne. 

Her colleagues merely smiled back cheerfully in response. Mrs. Evans even waved back at one of the guards. Apparently, they knew each other. 

Marianne, unlike them, was not used to such a lax greeting from military officials. While they were on duty, anyway. She found herself half expecting a salute. And almost raised her hand to give one in return. Old habits. But she quickly curbed the impulse. 

Instead, she gave into the impulse to turn her head away from the windows. After all, there was a very good chance Marianne knew one of the guards as well. 

Once they were clear of any potential former colleagues Marianne relaxed. 

As the carriage brought them down the drive Marianne turned to the windows once again. This time with rapt interest. Getting to see the gardens of the royal palace was rare treat indeed. Marianne didn't want to miss a single thing about them. Though she tried to put forward an air of disinterest. She wasn't going to be caught gaping about like some gormless child. 

No matter how much she wanted to gape about like some gormless child. 

There were more than enough ways for her to be humiliated that night without her giving people easy opportunities. 


	7. Stepping Into the Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The palace holds more than a few surprises for Marianne, as well as the more observant of her companions.

Marianne was not entirely sure how to feel as their carriage pulled to a stop by the palace steps. Excitement and trepidation coursed through her simultaneously. And she knew not which feeling was the more prudent. Nor did she have time to decide. 

Because the instant the carriage stopped, a footman and the door was swung open. As soon as the young man moved back out of the way, Marianne's colleagues rushed to exit the vehicle. As they did, their demeanour shifted from the almost childish excitement they had indulged in on their journey to the more typical, dignified airs Marianne was accustomed to see them projecting. Though she could still see the light of wonder in their eyes as they took in their surroundings. 

Marianne steeled herself quickly as she she could, then followed their lead. She carefully climbed down from the carriage, taking the offered hand of the footman to keep her balance. Once her feet were solidly on the ground she thanked the young man, with an only slightly forced smile. 

"My pleasure, Miss," he replied casually with a much more genuine smile in return. 

Marianne raised an eyebrow at him at the informal way he spoke to her. Surely the palace staff were trained better than to speak so familiarly to a guest. He shrugged at her, and continued to smile happily. 

"The nobility don' thank us, Miss. Just regular folk."

That made sense. She made a face at him as she went to join her colleagues. 

"I'm sorry to hear that." 

"It's not your fault Miss," he assured her as he moved to retake his post. 

"All the same," she said over her shoulder as she caught up with Mrs. Bell, who was giving her a searching look. Eyebrows raised suspiciously. A mischievous smirk beginning to curve along her lips. Marianne rolled her eyes at her as she came level with her at the bottom of the palace steps where her colleagues stood in line to enter the building. 

"I seem to recall you saying you were uninterested in romantic endeavours," Mrs. Bell said with repressed laughter as she looped an arm through Marianne's. 

"I did and I am," Marianne replied, unsure as to what her friend was thinking. 

"You have a funny way of showing it," she pointed out, letting out a chuckle. Marianne frowned at her, still confused, until she continued, "You're quite the flirt, child." 

She laughed at her again. This time, Marianne was in on the joke. Rather than laugh along with her friend, she sighed, and hung her head exasperatedly. 

"I was being _nice_ ," she emphasised, "I decided to give it a try. Now I know better, thank you for your input, Mrs. Bell. I'll go back to being my usual taciturn self." 

"Perhaps you should just try to learn the line between niceties and flirtation," she suggested, patting Marianne's hand affectionately. Marianne elbowed her in retaliation. That just made Mrs. Bell even more amused, though she tried to stifle her mirth lest her subordinates catch her in the act of being a feeling creature. 

Heaven forfend they realise a she was a normal human being rather than some kind of automaton. 

"I know the difference perfectly well, thank you. Perhaps you should take a refresher in discourse yourself," Marianne replied smartly as they at last began to move up the mountainous steps. 

The palace staff were finally allowing people to enter the ballroom, if Marianne were to guess. She would know for sure if she had a timepiece, preferably one that worked. Unfortunately, the only one she owned had not worked in almost seven years. She had left it behind in the Laurent's mansion, lest it become even more damaged. 

The surrounding crowd seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Marianne. An excited murmuring started up all around them. People began to look as though there might be a break in propriety and a large push toward the inner palace. 

Marianne was quite glad there was not. She did not feel like become violent so early in the evening. She at least wanted to get into the palace before she was prevailed upon to break some poor sap's bones. It would not do to be thrown out by the guards before she'd even gotten a toe over the threshold. She was certain Mrs. Bell would never let her live it down if she was. 

Instead of devolving into violence things moved along very smoothly. Although the line never seemed to get any shorter. Quite the opposite. 

Increasingly more people continuously arrived at the palace steps. When Marianne turned to look, a queue of carriages had formed along the drive, going back as far as she could see. 

It shouldn't have been as surprising to her as it was, Marianne reasoned. Everyone in the country and surrounding kingdoms who could come to the palace would be there. But she had thought the Laurents and their household would be among the earliest to arrive. The ball was not to start for another hour or so, as far as Marianne could judge. 

As it turned out, they were quite far from being the first guests to appear at the palace. This seemed a little ridiculous to her. How early did those at the front of the line get to the castle? Did those poor suckers set out yesterday? Last week? 

The Lord only knew. 

Madness. The lot of it. Complete and utter madness. 

Every single one of them, herself included, should probably be rounded up and sent off to an asylum post-haste. 

She tried to put her more severe thoughts out of her mind. Instead she focused on the splendour of the palace. The architecture. And once they reached the entrance hall, the exquisite chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. The massive, ornamented staircases. The beautiful paintings that lined the walls. 

Those were what she truly focused on. 

The paintings were beyond anything Marianne had seen in a long, long time. Every canvas on the wall was truly a masterpiece. Truly wondrous to behold. Marianne learned and remembered so much just by laying eyes on them for the time it took to walk past. She was honestly enjoying herself as they waited to be announced and let into the ballroom. 

She was even scheming up excuses she could use and ways she could sneak away from the festivities. Not to avoid the dancing or the bourgeoisie. But so she could wander the halls and take in the massive collection of art the palace hosted. 

Marianne knew that a few hours alone with even part of the royal family's collection would be worth more than half a lifetime's study at a top university. Something which she could never dream of affording. So, her scheme was very pleasing to her on many levels. Learning, avoiding the night's revelry. The plan was endlessly attractive. 

But part way through her musings a particular painting came into view that her stopped her heart completely. It was a huge canvas, impossible to miss. She tried to take a deep breath, but was restricted by the corset and she began to be afraid she would swoon. Marianne would have looked around to see if there was a fainting couch nearby, but she could not take her eyes off that painting. 

It was a portrait. A young child. It was hard to tell from looking, most would say the child was five or six. But Marianne knew the young girl was eight. Smiling and dimpled, surrounded by flowers. Lilies. One of the same flowers was affixed in the child's make of almost pinkish, strawberry hair. 

It was not just the subject that was familiar to her. It was the brushstrokes. The style. The use of light. Every little detail of the painting told her it was original. Not a reproduction or a forgery. 

She did not think she wanted to know, either. 

A hand landed gently on her shoulder and Marianne nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around, finally taking her eyes off the painting, and met the concerned gaze of Mrs. Bell and Harrison. She took a proper breath and tried to compose herself. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologised, "I got a little distracted. The art collection is really magnificent, is not it?" 

"Yes, it is," Harrison agreed with a nod, sounding impressed, probably did not think her so cultured as to appreciate art. She could not blame him, she was a bit of a brute. 

"But the line is moving on," Mrs. Bell said and gently steered her onward a little so she was no longer holding up the people waiting behind them. 

She was once again sounding suspicious so Marianne quickly moved forward, and tried not to let her eyes travel back to the painting from her childhood. She was unsuccessful in that endeavour. She kept looking over at it, then realising what she was doing, tearing her gaze away far too quickly to be subtle about it. 

Eventually, Mrs. Bell realised what had disturbed her so much. She followed Marianne's look and at last noticed the large canvas had taken her so by surprise and caused so much agitation. The second she saw it Marianne could see the comprehension dawn on her face and give way to pure and utter amazement. The severe woman's composure dropped completely and her jaw actually dropped. This time it was her who stopped moving and Marianne who had to egg her onward.

She came back to herself when Marianne pushed her forward. She quickly looked around to Marianne with pure astonishment in her expression. Silently demanding why a giant portrait of _her_ was hanging in the royal palace. 

After a moment of hesitation, Marianne obliged. 

"My father painted that when I was eight." 

"Your father?" she repeated quietly. 

"Yes. He was a painter, and when he found inspiration hard to come by, he painted me, or my mother. We're the subjects of a good lot of his works. But I never thought they would end up somewhere like this," Marianne elaborated, equally as quiet, gesturing around at the palace they were standing in. 

"Really?" she asked, returning to her typical self, but looking around at the portrait once again, "Perhaps you should have. Your father's work is exquisite." 

"Some people think so," Marianne replied, going for modesty, as she always did whenever someone complimented her father's work. 

She herself was never sure how she felt about it. Objectively, Marianne could see that it was good. Very good. But as the subject of a lot of it, it made her uncomfortable. It was impossible not to know how her father saw her when she looked at his paintings of her. And his opinions of her were not always very flattering. 

"The King must be one of them," Mrs. Bell pointed out as they moved on and her childhood portrait faded out of their view. But the raised eyebrow Mrs. Bell was sporting made Marianne almost let out a groan of despair. 

Instead of doing that, she took a deep breath - as deep as she could manage wearing a corset - and followed Mrs. Bell's gaze to see what had brought about that bold statement. What she saw was another of her father's works. Another that featured her. 

It was not a portrait. It was a garden scene. A garden Marianne knew each nook and cranny of once upon a time. Her childhood hope in the background, with its blue door, and covered in ivy. The frog pond in the foreground. And her, aged thirteen, in her brother's old clothes, and her hair down and wild as she had been then. Her face red and tear streaked. Looking despondently into the distance. Her melancholy form reflected in the pond. 

She did not remember sitting for that one. Had not even seen it until that very moment. But she did remember the day, the minute, the second, its likeness was taken. Vividly. She spent a lot of her life since then trying very hard to forget it. 

She almost cried thinking of it. 

It was the day the letter arrived from the military. 

The day they found out her brother died. 

If her father was still alive, Marianne would have stormed from the palace that instant, hunted him down, and killed him herself. She might just get into the occult and find out how to raise him from the dead. Then kill him. Again, and again, and again. 

Over and over, until she wasn't angry with him anymore. Which would likely take a _long_  time. 

How dare he. How _dare_ he profit from her grief. From the death of his own child. How could he use them like that? 

She knew he wasn't a good man. Marianne had known that since she was a little girl. But, this, this exploitation of his children. Two of the only people who ever cared for him. It was a new low. 

It was no wonder he never told her about his illicit little painting. 

Well. It was not really so little. It was almost the same size of the window opposite it. The depiction of her on the canvas was nearly the same size as she was at thirteen. It must have taken him a lot of effort to hide it from her. 

She could _kill_ him. 

But that lucky bastard had already escaped her wrath. He was six fee under and there was nothing she could do to hurt him anymore. No matter how much he managed to hurt her posthumously. It wasn't fair. 

"Someone in the palace must be," she agreed, trying to keep her voice steady. 

It took more effort than Marianne would admit to, but she tried to disguise the sorrow and anger writhing through her mind. She knew not how well she did, but she was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than her father's secret painting right then. 

"Are you alright, child?" Mrs. Bell asked softly, gently laying a hand on Marianne's shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. 

She must not have been very successful at suppressing her distress, then. Marianne quickly tried her best to pull herself together. Forcing the terrible memories out of her mind, she focused on the present. 

"I will be," she assured her friend. 

Mrs. Bell did not look convinced. But Marianne would not allow her to continue the topic. Not there. Not then. 

Not ever, if Marianne had anything to say about it. But she seriously doubted she would have a say. 

She had to stop the barrage of concerned questions. Partly because it was a difficult issue for Marianne. Partly due to the crowd surrounding them. She was determined to get Mrs. Bell to drop it for the time being, at the very least. So Marianne did not pull any punches. She said whatever she thought would seal her friend's lips. Why was she discussing a delicate issue where so many strangers could overhear? Did she have any remaining discretion? Or was she too dazzled by their surroundings for subtlety anymore? 

That was a little cruel, but it did the job very well. 

They continued the rest of the way into the ballroom quietly. Occasionally attempting idle conversation. The palace was very grand, was it not? It seemed the whole kingdom had come out in force to attend, did not it? Did you think such finery even existed until now? But they were both too distracted by a far more interesting topic to speak of things of such little consequence for long.

When they entered the ballroom, her breath was taken away anew. It was even more lavish than the passages they had come in through. It was very grand indeed, but Marianne had not as much attention to give the beautiful scenery as she would have liked. And far less admiration than it deserved. 

Fortunately, Marianne did have enough of her wits remaining not to draw attention to herself as their party moved forward to be announced by the royal herald. It was unlikely that he would ask for the servants' names. But in the event he did, she would rather leap from the balcony than give hers. And with her luck, giving the herald a fake name would only come back to bit her in the rear. Very quickly after the fact. 

Hiding amongst the other staff members had the added benefit of concealing her rather distinctive appearance. With her father's paintings hanging all over the palace, there was no telling how many of the courtiers might recognise her. 

God damn that man. And whoever bought those paintings. 

It appeared her first instincts were correct and the ball was going to be a bloody nightmare for her. She had gotten her hopes up for naught. 

Oh, well. 

It was of little matter. Marianne had work to do. 

She curtsied to the King and the Prince along with her colleagues. But she paid the two most powerful men in the kingdom as little mind as she did their drapes. Instead, she set her eyes to sweeping the room and all its occupants. On her first glance, she picked out three men she would have to keep the other girls away from. 

Her quick inspection also gave her a passing familiarity with all of the exits and blind spots. Which would have to do. Any more thorough examination would be too conspicuous, with the eyes of the gathering on their party as they descended the stairs. 

She was beginning to think the palace was made up entirely of staircases. It was a pain. In the feet, specifically. Marianne would never forgive Mrs. Bell for badgering her into wearing damned high heeled slippers. 

Guarding the virtue of the Laurent household may prove to be more difficult than she originally thought. 

The things Marianne did for her friends. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said we'd be getting to the ball. Technically, this is the ball. It's turned out to be more of a filler chapter, but as I was writing it kind of took on a mind of its own. In the form of some background on Marianne. We learned a little more about her, yay. 
> 
> I swear we'll be getting to some action next time. I promise.


	8. The Mystery Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the ball was about to commence, Marianne was convinced it was going to be a dull affair. Painfully dull. Until a mystery girl appeared, to steal the heart of not only the Prince, but those of the entire assembly.

Marianne had not been in the ballroom for more than five minutes, and she was already seriously considering robbing a waiter of their tray of champagne. Not a good sign, she was sure. 

The aforementioned impulse was not triggered by any stress or mishap. No, that would have been a blessing. In Marianne's eyes, if no one else's. She was tempted to fall into a bottle - or a champagne flute - because that might make the goings on resemble something in the region of interesting. As things stood, Marianne was close to falling asleep standing up. 

Although, her swooning may have similarly exciting results. 

She briefly weighed the pros of something happening against the cons of making a spectacle of herself. Unfortunately, Marianne's sense of decorum was stronger than her boredom. Drat. Why did her mother have to raise her well? 

Marianne did not get blind drunk, so all in all, the enormous amount of fuss that went into getting to the ball appeared to be for nothing. It was shaping up to be a very dull evening indeed. All Marianne had to amuse herself was silently laughing at the gentry in all their exaggerated glory. The best moment by far was the arrival of a trio of women. A mother and her two adult daughters. Named Tremaine, apparently. 

They were the three most ridiculous people Marianne had every had the pleasure of laughing at in her entire life. 

And she knew some damn strange people, so that was saying a _lot_. 

The mother, Lady Tremaine, in a huge feathered headdress, swanned down the steps like she thought she was an empress in a Shakespeare production. If Marianne were to place her, she would say the woman belonged in A Comedy of Errors. From the general reception she received, Marianne would say she barely made the gentility. And she was parading around like she was a queen. 

Like Marianne said, ridiculous. 

But she was nothing compared to her daughters. They refused to move down the stairs until they had harassed the poor herald into introducing them as the 'Very Pretty Drizella' and the 'Very Clever Anastasia'. Personally, Marianne thought badgering the herald into announcing she was 'very clever' to the whole ballroom proved she was quite the opposite. 

They were something alright. Clever just was not it. 

And, dear God above in heaven, what were they wearing? Marianne had never in her life claimed to be up to date on the latest fashions. But holy hell, they looked like a pantomime threw up on them. An especially bad, more tacky than usual, pantomime. Marianne could not, and would not, believe that was a la mode right now. Or had been at any point in time, ever. 

Judging by the looks being thrown their way, Marianne was right. 

She could safely sat that she was not the only one snickering behind her fan. Not by a long shot. She could not count on all her fingers and toes the amount of people, men and women alike, trying and failing to hide their glee at the girls' expense.

Marianne felt a little bad for them. But it was difficult to do anything but laugh when faced with living, breathing caricatures of gentility. And, you know, they did decided to leave the house like that. So, they were not entirely innocent of crimes against the human eye. 

Unless their mother forced them to dress in such a ridiculous way so she could look better herself in comparison. So she would outshine them and win over the Prince herself. Or some Duke. Or an Earl. Anyone with a title could be Lady Tremaine's possible target. 

It was not the most likely explanation for their outrageous attire. Marianne was woman enough to admit that. But honestly, Marianne would not put such a scheme past certain members of the gentry. Any member of the nobility or landed gentry who was running low on funds because they were struggling to stay in the ranks. Or keep up with the lavish lifestyle associated with their station. They would be very well inclined to implement such a scheme. 

Marianne had seen it before. 

Her father was a master of that kind of subterfuge. Although, his interest was mainly in keeping up with gambling debts, rather than with the latest crazes of the upper classes. 

Different end, same means. It was a strategy of endless appeal to certain people, Marianne supposed. 

Though, she thought, as they finally finished their overly dramatic descent and joined the crowd, they young women might have another reason for dressing so _distinctively_. There was no chance they would be overlooked, or lost in the crowed among the other young ladies in finely made gowns. They were certainly guaranteed to catch Prince Christopher's eye. Along with every other man in the room. Even if they were not guaranteed the Prince's notice, they were sure to claim the attention of someone or other important man in the course of the evening. 

It was not a bad plan. If you did not mind looking quite that ridiculous to accomplish your ends. 

Although, she was loath to be so severe on a member of her own sex, Marianne had to acknowledge that it was entirely possible the two Tremaine girls just had terrible taste. Though it was a hard fact to accept as a possibility. This was probably her least favoured reasoning for the sight that assaulted her eyes moments before. 

It was, in her humble estimation, the most disturbing option. 

Unfortunately for Marianne's mental state, not even something as odd as the Tremaines could divert her forever. A few minutes later, her mirth subsided once again. And Marianne found herself just as desolately bored as she had been before they waltzed into the ballroom. 

It was enough to make her regret that they refrained from any more embarrassing displays. Even if it would have been terrible for those poor girls in the long run. 

That may have been a good indicator that Marianne wasn't a very good person. Though she found that she did not care very much. Oh well. To thine own self be true, after all. 

She milled about the ballroom, pretending to be admiring the decor. She was really checking all of the exits. Inspecting all of the shadowy, secluded corners and alcoves. Marianne wanted to know every place any of her charges could disappear to throughout the night. 

She may also have been scoping out those quiet locations as potential hiding spots for herself. She could foresee a need for escape cropping up later in the evening, and it was best to be prepared. Although if anyone were to ask, she would deny that part of her motivations until her dying breath. 

Anyone who passed the matter, may just be in danger of getting punched in the face. 

Even if they were a Duke. 

Or Harrison. 

Though Marianne did not believe she would have the stones to raise a hand to Mrs. Bell. No matter how angry or embarrassed she happened to be. Nor could she ever imagine herself wanting to. 

Marianne spent a good fifteen minutes wandering the ballroom. Pretending to be innocently curious, and swept up in the grandeur of her surroundings. Considering how thoroughly she was ignored by those she performing quite well. And if she was only mediocre, Marianne was below the notice of the people she was keeping an eye on. 

Either way, it worked out of her. So, Marianne was not bothered about it. 

It was a far better use of her time to focus on keeping a watchful eye on those she was hired to protect, rather than dwelling on how others perceived her strolling around the ballroom by herself. Besides, she had never before cared about what strangers had thought of her. There was no point in beginning to be so uselessly fretful now. 

So Marianne ignored the few furtive looks she received as she moved through the crowd. Mostly, from people of the middle classes, not the nobility. Some were suspicious. Others were ... interested. And that disturbed her enough that she decided to forget she had noticed them. 

This was how she spent her time until the herald decided everyone had arrived, and announced the commencement of the first dance. That caused every woman in the room to not so subtly rush toward the dance floor, and attempt to pose themselves in a way that would attract the Prince's attention. All in an effort to tempt him to choose them as his partner for the first dance. 

But Marianne could flatter and quite easily say, though she never would aloud, that she knew Prince Christopher quite well. And she would safely say that not a single one of their simpering displays would entice him so. 

Prince Christopher was a man of kindness and warmth. No amount of time at court or on the battle field could have changed that in the time since Marianne had known him. 

That their shameless efforts would fail spectacularly Marianne was certain. 

And she was certain of very little. 

As it turned out, Marianne was entirely correct. The Prince did not choose a single one of them to dance with. 

This foresight she was exhibiting was truly wonderful. Why, oh why, had she not discovered this supernatural gift of hers before now? It may have saved her a _lot_ of trouble in the past. And that certainly would have been nice. 

Although, the crystal ball circuit may not have been so kind to her. She did not predict _who_ he would ask to dance. Though she did give herself some slack. Marianne did not think anyone could have seen that young woman coming. 

She arrived just as the herald finished speaking. The doors swung open, having just been closed, and there had ever seen. A young woman with bouncing blonde curls stood at the threshold. In a flowing blue ballgown that made the assembled royalty look under dressed and cheap. 

Whoever she was, she sure knew how to make an entrance, Marianne had to say. 

It was honestly an unparalleled talent, the way the girl rendered the entire ballroom so utterly speechless. Not many people could have called such a diverse and excited crowd to attention by just walking into a room. Without even speaking. Or calling for their notice. 

She would be a very interesting woman to know. 

Evidently, Prince Christopher agreed with her assessment. Because at the sight of her he left his place by the King's side. Stepped away from the elegant young princess who was being presented to him abruptly. And the two of them, Prince Christopher and the mystery girl, moved to meet each other at the centre of the dance floor. As though they were drawn to each other by some intangible, irresistible force. 

It was an amazing thing to watch. 

Marianne could not say she had ever witnessed anything like it before. The way they looked at each other as they spoke. The intense and genuine feeling and connection she could see in their eyes. It was profound. Very much so. Watching them, she felt as though she were peeking in on something extremely private. 

As the music began, and the twirled around the floor like petals in the breeze, Marianne smiled to herself. Good. She was happy for Prince Christopher. If anyone on earth deserved such happiness, it was the Prince. 

The mystery girl, people begun to call her the Mystery Princess, enraptured everyone present. Even as the ball continued late into the evening, wherever Marianne wandered, everyone spoke of nothing but the Mystery Princess who had, in an instant, stolen the heart of their much beloved Prince. Almost every one of the citizens were extraordinarily happy for Prince Christopher. That was the level of respect and love he inspired in his people. Even those high born young women like the Laurents felt joy, despite the acute disappointment they faced.

There were a few who were nothing best violent with envy. Marianne thought she would have to head off one young woman, who looked to be about to follow the Prince and the Mystery Princess as they sneaked away from the ballroom. But the young lady's mother had taken care of well before Marianne could act. She grabbed the young woman by her arm, pulled her to her side, and began to quietly, but intensely, scold her. 

All in all, the night was going swimmingly for everyone present. 

It was going so well that, at about eleven o'clock Mrs. Bell approached her with a smile and an uncharacteristic hug. From the look of her flushed cheeks, Marianne guessed the blame for her gregarious behaviour lay with quite a lot of the King's wine. 

"I see you are the only person in the room who is not enjoying themselves, child," she said, still smiling, albeit a little regretfully. 

"I'm having a much better time to than I thought I would, Mrs. Bell," Marianne tried to say cheerfully in an attempt to keep Mrs. Bell from falling into the inebriated melancholy that was so common among the drunk soldiers Marianne used to know. 

"Be that as it may," Mrs. Bell continued, smile still firmly in place, "I have been informed by your mistress that she believes your prowling is no longer needed this evening." 

"Lady Laurent said so?" Marianne was more than a little surprised. 

"Yes, our Lady believes that if anything unsavoury were going to happen tonight, it would have already occurred by now. And now that your prowling is no longer necessary, it is beginning to unsettle her and her acquaintance." 

Marianne had to laugh at that. It was really quite odd to her she was unsettling the assembled gentlewoman. Marianne did not intimidate people. That had always been Adam's wheelhouse. When he was not there, that fell to Colonel Maraxis, or, on occasion Lieutenant Roseau. Never her. Even when she was masquerading as a man. And she did quite a good job at that. If she did say so herself. 

"If Lady Laurent wishes to call off the hounds, I shall oblige," Marianne submitted to her mistress's request, "I will entertain myself well enough until the party is over. You go back to enjoying the ball, Mrs. Bell." 

"I am sure you will," Mrs. Bell agreed, "But if you are stuck for something to do, I have it on good authority that the entirety of the Royal Collection is on public display for tonight." 

"With that, and a sly wink, Mrs. Bell re-joined the group of women about her own age as they sat gathered around one of the many coffee tables. Marianne smiled to herself as Mrs. left. And called after her softly, 

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you, Mrs. Bell." 


	9. Meeting Miss Fanny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne's tour of the Palace's art collection ends with a surprise introduction to a rather eccentric high-born lady.

Marianne took Mrs. Bell at her word, or well, Lady Laurent's word, and left the festivities behind her at the first opportunity that arose for a quiet exit. She also took Mrs. Bell's suggestion to heart. Marianne wandered through the Palace's art collection to her heart's content. At least, the fraction of it that was on public display on the ground floor.

She was not bold enough to attempt to breach the higher floors. She predicted the guards would be rather testy when it came to more private areas of the Palace. And she did not want to be ejected from the castle before the ball came to a close.

Not even Mrs. Bell's assurance that the collection was open to public display could get her to ascend the stairs. Mainly because if she was forcibly removed from the premises, her colleagues would never let her live it down.

Additionally, Marianne was really not up to getting in a slap fight with the guards should the upper floors be out of bounds. She had no doubt that she would win, since the majority of the staff was positioned much closer to the ballroom. But it would be far more bother than she had signed up for that evening.

That being said, as the night waned, had walked the length and breadth of the ground floor, those parts open to visitors. Marianne had to go somewhere. And she could hear as she passed that the ball was still in full swing. Her party would not be leaving for quite some time. And she would rather get in a skirmish with the guards than return to the ballroom. If she did, she would likely never escape it until the early hours of the morning.

So, Marianne went about looking for an alternative. It was a good plan, mainly because she got to tour the paintings again. But it also kept her far away from anyone who might recognise her - or rather, her resemblance to her mother. And more importantly, only young men who would be brave enough to ask her to  _dance_. She shuddered at the thought.

In the end, she found herself a very pleasant hiding place. Far enough from the source of the revelry that she should not be stumbled on by another of the part goers. Close enough that Marianne could hear the music, faintly. And would be able to hear when the ball ended as well.

It was a pretty, intimate little drawing room. Done up in sky blue silk hangings and upholstery. The room was elegant, but quite clearly personal. It was likely intended to host the most intimate of parties held by the royal families.

As such, Marianne felt a little like an intruder in such a clearly confidential space. But she decided, at length, that she was unlikely to find anywhere else to while away her time uninterrupted. And that what the King and the Prince did not know would not bother them.

And so, Marianne settled herself upon one of the graceful little armchairs to take a better look at her surroundings. When she did, she was even more shocked than she had been at the sight of her portrait in the entrance hall. This room had its fair share of artwork adorning the walls as well. That was unsurprising. The royal family had enough money to cover every inch of their walls in masterpieces.

What shocked Marianne was that some of the pieces were  _hers_.

Marianne had not seen any of her works in  _years_. Not since her father's death.

After he died, all of his assets had been seized by many and varied creditors. To pay off the significant gambling debts he owed them. Settling those accounts had left Marianne with nothing. Not even her own paintings or the two remaining heirlooms of her mother's - which she had only saved from her father pawning by hiding them - had been spared from the creditors.

Since then she never had enough money to paint another. And had all but forgotten that she had ever gone that far in her father's trade.

Now, they were hanging in the Palace. Every last one of her works.

Some of her father's paintings ending up in the hands of the royal family made sense to her. His abilities in his craft had been widely known and well regarded during his lifetime. There had always been a steady demand for commissions. If he hadn't gambled it all away, they would have been very well off.

That much Marianne remembered well enough.

The demand for his work only increased after his death. When there was no longer the possibility of more, their value as finite articles of culture increased exponentially. The profits of that occurrence went to the banks and creditors who had taken possession of them to settle the debts her father had left on her shoulders.

But her work was another story altogether. The only people who had ever seen her paintings, before they were taken by the back, had been her father and brother. So, how they became desirable to royalty was a complete and utter mystery to Marianne.

Somehow, they had. All of them. Even though they were fair less grand and flamboyant than the paintings of her father and many other great painters. They were far smaller in size, for one. Most of them were simple. Holding the sweet simplicity of an adolescent girl. Every landscape she had painted from the garden of her childhood home was present and accounted for. The portrait of her mother hung between two beautifully draped windows. The miniatures of her brother rested upon the mantle piece, below a magnificent mirror.

One of which featured a young, optimistic Mathis. Painted before her mother's death. The other, the jaded soldier he had become during the wars. With the blue coat and gold braiding of his uniform clashing with his hazel eyes. So cold and unbroachable. So like her own.

Marianne became utterly lost in taking in the paintings she hadn't seen since she traded them for her freedom so many years ago. So much so that she did not notice someone else had entered the room.

She had no idea what was happening to her, but she was becoming awfully lax at remaining aware of her surroundings. If Colonel Maraxis had ever seen her jump so much at the sound of a lady's polite 'Good Evening', she was sure he would have sent her running drills for a good eight hours. If he was in a good mood. Well, what qualified for him as a 'good mood'. Cheerful was not a word anyone would use to describe the old Colonel.

Marianne whirled around to face the door. And in doing so, almost overturned the armchair in which she sat.

The woman who had spoken was an older woman. Marianne would say she was in her early fifties, if she had to guess. Very elegant. Her bearing, and dress very obviously declared she was high born, but not royalty. Nobility, probably. Or perhaps a member of the gentry who was particularly well off. Either way, this woman was quite a few rungs higher than Marianne in the pecking order of society.

So, Marianne hurriedly got to her feet with all the grace she could and curtsied to the woman. Hoping against all hope that her delay in doing so was not long enough to cause offence to her unknown companion.

"My lady," she greeted the woman, still uncertain as to whether or not she had offended the lady. 

"Oh, my dear, do sit down. There is just the two of us present, no need for all that," she simply dismissed Marianne's hurried courtesies with an elegant wave of her hand. And daintily took a seat in the armchair next to Marianne's. 

"As you wish, my lady," Marianne agreed unsurely and lowered herself back into her chair. 

"Call me Fanny, my girl, please," she insisted pleasantly, with a warm smile and a curious look in her eye, "And what may I call you, dear?" 

"Marianne, Marianne Renoir," she said without really thinking, and gave Miss Fanny a name she had not used in an incredibly long time. And surprisingly, it did not bring on the panic and anger that the thought of sharing that name usually brought on. 

"Wonderful to make your acquaintance, Miss Marie," Miss Fanny said, that curious gleam growing a little disconcerting. But, it was not enough to set off alarm bells in Marianne's mind yet. 

"Likewise, Miss Fanny."  


	10. Another Royal Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Fanny acquaints Marianne with a mystery regarding the Royal family's art collection, with a hidden intention behind her tale.

'Marie' was something that Marianne had not been called since her brother died. But Miss Fanny was so cheerful and open that she found that she did not mind. Not at all. Perhaps she was rendered more comfortable with the familiarity by the fact that Miss Fanny had given her permission to use a pet name of her own as well. 

She started a conversation by asking, "Tell me Miss Marie, what a lovely young lady such as yourself is hiding away here, not in the midst of the festivities?" 

Marianne looked down bashfully and attempted to come up with a reply that would not embarrass her or sound impertinent. She bit her lip and blushed as she tried to think of something respectful to say. Which is something that had never been her forte in the past. So, it proved to be a little difficult. Especially because she was so unused to speaking to people of high rank in an equal manner that it really threw her. 

"I'm much more an appreciator of art than I am a dancer, Miss Fanny," was what Marianne finally settled on saying. 

It seemed to be a good choice, because it made Miss Fanny smile fondly at her. 

"That is an unusual quality in a young lady, but one that I really appreciate. I am very fond of art myself. Did you take the opportunity to tour the public display?" 

"I did," Marianne replied gaining an enthusiasm for the conversation. Art was one of the only subjects where she felt confident she could keep up easily with the upper classes. "It was immensely impressive. I saw so many works of artists I admire, and so many famous pieces that I never thought I would get the opportunity to view." 

Miss Fanny learned a little forward, clearly enthused by the conversation as well, "I understand perfectly, my dear, I always sneak away to tour the gallery whenever I have occasion to come to the palace." 

Marianne nodded, with a smile beginning to take over her features, "I feel I have learned so much in the last few hours, just from having the chance to see this having the chance to see this outstanding collection. More than I have learned in years." 

"I often feel the same," Miss Fanny agreed, "Are you a student of art yourself? Do you paint yourself?" 

"I have not painted in quite a while, but I always sketch. Personally, I prefer charcoal to pencil. It is just what I am used to and am most comfortable with. So, I usually feel I get better results from it, because of that." 

That response seemed to please Miss Fanny a great deal, "You are quite right Miss Marie, we all do achieve the best results when we have practised at a skill. No true excellence can come without application." 

"That is true, Miss Fanny. Which is why I fear my skill with a brush has been horribly neglected for too long." 

"It is quite difficult to practice such a skill while in service. Impossible, I would say," Miss Fanny agreed. 

It was not difficult to see how Miss Fanny had come to the correct conclusion that Marianne was in service. A person's attire and bearing said a lot about them in a simple glance. Marianne's clothing, as well as how nervous she was in speaking to Miss Fanny this way, all screamed her position to any and all observers. It was a simple fact. And Marianne was not offended in the slightest that Miss Fanny brought it up, as she she did not do so maliciously. And Marianne was not ashamed of being in service. It was a better life than she had experienced in a long time. 

"It certainly is, I'm lucky enough that the family who employ me afford me the time to keep up my skill to a certain extent. But the time and expense painting requires is just not possible," Marianne informed her seriously, "But my position is comfortable enough that the sacrifice is worth it." 

"I am glad to hear that you are content with your current circumstances, but it may be premature to give up on painting altogether. We never can know what our future holds."

Marianne outright laughed at that. No one knew that better than her. She would comfortably wager all of her meagre savings on it. Miss Fanny took that to be the hearty agreement that it was and chuckled along with Marianne. 

"Trust me, Miss Fanny, I know that perfectly well. How else would an artist end up in service if not through a strange and unpredictable life?" 

Miss Fanny let out another soft chuckle. Covering her mouth with a gloved hand, as though she was going to get caught and scolded by a governess. It was such an adorable and girlish thing to see a grown woman do, that it brought another laugh bubbling up from Marianne's throat. It took Marianne and her unexpected companion a few minutes to master themselves, but when they did, Miss Fanny had more questions for her. 

"It is quite interesting to me that I should meet with an artist in this room of the palace, as this is the most interesting part of the Royal collection," she began, a twinkle of gleeful interest in her eye, "For the paintings within this room are shrouded in unpenetrable mystery." 

Marianne could not refrain from laughing aloud again at that declaration, though from Miss Fanny's bearing, Marianne could see that her companion was utterly serious. Still, the mere thought that the works in this room, her own works, were mysterious was so laughably ridiculous that she could not prevent herself from doing just that. Luckily, Marianne's odd companion did not appear to be offended by her glib manner. Quite the opposite. Miss Fanny in fact seemed to be delighted by Marianne's reaction. 

"You do not know of this great artistic mystery?" she asked teasingly, to which Marianne responded in the negative, "Oh that is a pity! For I was planning to pick your brain on the issue. Alas! Well, have no misery over it, as I now have the joy of telling you the very interesting tale of these lovely works." 

"I should enjoy that immensely, Miss Fanny, if you would favour me with your account of it. I believe we have time aplenty for you to do so." 

"It would be a pleasure, my dear Miss Marie," Miss Fanny thrilled and leaned toward the younger woman eagerly, "These works were purchased by the late Queen Celia, and were by all accounts her favourites of all the masterpieces in the Royal collection. Not for any technical brilliance, or any great painter associated with them. Her Majesty favoured them because they evoked a sense of innocence and optimism. I did not ever have the opportunity to speak with the Queen on the subject, but if that was, in fact, her opinion I must say I agree with Her Majesty." 

"You see innocence and optimism when you study these paintings, Miss Fanny?" Marianne was unable to stop herself interrupting, she was too surprised by that evaluation of her work. 

Happily, she was able to keep her surprise in check, and speak only with light curiosity. Instead of bursting forth with the astonishment that she was repressing, if only just barely. 

"I do indeed, my girl," Miss Fanny confirmed happily, "Why, what do you see in these paintings Miss Marie?" 

"Something very different, I am afraid," Marianne replied, and not wishing to elaborate steered the conversation back toward the apparent mystery, "But this account does not so far appear to be suspicious to me." 

This tactic worked, because Miss Fanny eagerly returned to her tale of mystery. As it was a more interesting topic to discuss than Marianne's particular opinion on the feelings evoked by a work of art. At the moment, at least. Miss Fanny seemed to be the sort Marianne could easily delve into such a discussion with. 

"Oh, I have not gotten to the best part my dear," Miss Fanny informed her with a smile and a wave of her hand, "The most interesting part of this story is that the Royal family purchased these works from Garrison's. A dealer in fine art whose knowledge of historical and modern artists is unparalleled." 

"I have heard of the man's reputation," Marianne agreed, "He is widely regarded as an expert curator and unrivalled authenticator of artwork." 

"That he certainly is," Miss Fanny agreed, "He saved my late husband and myself from purchasing two forged works in the past. Works which, mind you, had been authenticated by a Greek museum." 

"He seems an impressive mind," Marianne praised him. 

Marianne knew all of this about the Garrison art dealership, and more. Her father had dealt with him in the past. Everyone in Europe who was in the world of art knew Garrison and his establishment. Still, Marianne decided it was best for herself not to allude to any familiarity with the man or his employees. 

Though it was difficult to keep herself in regulation. Her mind was busy ruminating over how her works had passed from the hands of her father's creditors to such an establishment as Garrison's, of all places. It was a mind-boggling thing to discover, although it had evidently happened. Somehow. Though Marianne could not guess at how it had occurred. 

"Now, Garrison's are the best authenticators in Europe, but when the late Queen Celia declared her intent to purchase the works, Garrison informed Her Majesty that he was unaware of who had created them," Miss Fanny revealed with the air Marianne imagined a detective might reveal who a murderer was at the climax of a lengthy investigation. 

"Truly," Marianne asked, as she was supposed to, "How can that be the case?" 

"Upon investigation it came out that the paintings and miniatures were bought from the owner of a gambling house," Miss Fanny informed her with all the scandalised horror of an upper class lady who had been raised strictly morally, "And the owner of the gambling parlour would not reveal from whence he came into possession of the pieces." 

That, Marianne could easily believe. She knew exactly who would have been the man to sell her work. And Mr. Ballew was a tough old man, trying to get any information from him would have been an insurmountable task. Marianne could easily see Garrison's employees simply giving up and taking the pieces for his requested price. He was not a man to be negotiated with. 

Frankly, Marianne could not imagine anyone waiting to remain in a room with him long enough to negotiate with the man. Anyone who attempted it was of a stronger stomach and of a more stable temper than she was in possession of herself. There had been several occasion where Marianne seriously contemplated shooting the man. 

And before you judge her for having had such a malicious thought, know that Mr. Ballew would most definitely have deserved it. Had she done it, Marianne likely would have been hailed as a local hero. 

"Tell me, what occurred once that had come to light?" Marianne asked, quite curious regarding the story now. 

"Garrison was questioned, of course, and revealed that he bought the works regardless of this because he believed they could be the work of Jeanne Renoir, who had lived in the area that the man selling the pieces was known to be from," Miss Fanny explained quickly, "Alas, when the man himself had the opportunity to examine the works himself, Garrison determined that they were not the work of Jeanne Renoir." 

"And so, the identity of the painter remains a mystery," Marianne concluded. 

"There are plenty of theories," Miss Fanny informed her, "Garrison declared that there is a remarkable similarity of technique to the works of Jeanne Renoir, but it is the style and brushstrokes that do not match up." 

"And what would that lead him to think?" Marianne wondered with a small smile, knowing that she would most definitely not be a suspect in any of the curator's theories, nor any of those dreamed up by the wealthy and bored. 

"Garrison believes, as do many others, that Renoir took on an apprentice. This apprentice fell into debt after the death of his master and sold the paintings," Miss Fanny began with a simple and very expected theory, "Others think that it was his son who created them, and that the miniatures are self portraits." 

"That is a very interesting tale Miss Fanny, I thank you for informing me of the business," Marianne said, thinking that the topic of conversation was winding up, "Which of the two do you prescribe to?" 

"I do not know what to think of it, child, if I am honest," Miss Fanny told her with a deep sigh, "I was hoping you could enlighten me on the matter." 

"How could I be able to do so, Miss Fanny, I have only just heard of the issue?" Marianne asked with a laugh. 

"You are Jeanne Renoir's daughter, are you not, Miss Marie?" Miss Fanny replied to Marianne's absolute shock and horror. But before she could try to form a reply, Miss Fanny spoke again, "I recognise you from your father's childhood portrait of you in the entrance hall. And the portrait of his wife, your mother, behind me. You look very much like her." 

It was Marianne's worst fear come to life. The reason she had wanted to avoid the ball was out of fear someone within would recognise her resemblance to her mother. Or her resemblance to the young girl in Jeanne Renoir's paintings. 

Marianne could hardly believe that it had happened. She had spent years in the army masquerading as a man without being discovered. Had spent over a year as a prize fighter, in the public eye, without being recognised. But she spent half an hour chatting with Miss Fanny, and the woman had found her out. She could feel panic starting to set in, along with the desire to flee from the palace and run back to the Laurent estate herself. 

She could very likely manage it. In the army she had run that far before, and was known for being able to keep pace with the horses for a good bit. Thus, Marianne was quite sure it could be done. Though she was not so sure of her employer's reaction should she do so. It likely would not be positive. 

Just as Marianne was about to spring from her chair, a hand softly rested on her shoulder. She quickly whipped around to face Miss Fanny once again. The woman was looking at her kindly, with some surprise at Marianne's reaction, but her expression was dominated by kindness. 


End file.
